“Hey, self-deprecation has its place, but this isn’t it. You’re a motivational speaker, bro. If you don’t believe your crap, who will?”
Evan laughs through his tears. “You suck.”
“Your mom sucks.”
“Mom’s great. Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
Evan laughs again. He sniffs and grabs a tissue from the nightstand. He wipes his eyes, blows his nose, and then, because he hasn’t changedthatmuch, he throws the tissue at me.
I roll back on the bed. “Dude. Gross.”
“Your mom’s gross,” he says.
I shake with laughter. Evan picks up the tissue and tosses it into the trash while I roll to my feet.
We both stand there, raw but smiling.
No, I don’t have issues with Evan. I love the guy.
I just wish my family could love me as much as they love him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
POPPY
My apartment is ice cold when I open the door.
Of course it is.
I forgot to change it on the app this morning when Oliver and I got on the train. It’ll take hours for this place to heat to something livable.
After I flip on the lights and drop my bags, I cross the small main room to turn on the heater. My fingers around the crutches’ handles are stiff, and my shoulders convulse from cold. The old radiator hisses when I press the button—it’ll take at least a couple of minutes to kick in, and far longer to actually heat the room. I rub my cold temples hard enough to hurt.
How could I be such an idiot?
Add it to the list of ways I’ve failed this week.
I keep my coat on while I unpack my bag. It’s a good thing I had enough clothes to last as long as I did. I expected to be in Georgia until this morning, anyway, when my planewas originally supposed to leave. Back before I had a nervous breakdown.
The motion I’d spent three weeks crafting sits crumpled at the bottom of my bag—forty-seven pages of carefully researched precedent, victim impact mitigation, family circumstances, and character evidence. All worthless now.
How many times did I interview Marcus’s wife. Three? Four times? I sat with his kids—Liam and Sofia—and watched them try to be brave while their world crumbled. Liam kept asking if I really thought I could help. Sofia cried.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I promised them. The same promise the attorney on my dad’s case made to Mom and me years ago in a courthouse hallway that smelled like stale Pine Sol and crushed dreams.
Federal fraud sentencing guidelines are strict, and Marcus was looking at 15-20 years minimum. With the loss amount involved, it could have been more. But I’d found threads to pull. His gambling addiction started after his mother’s cancer diagnosis. The medical bills were too high. The desperation was too intense. It was the same desperation that had driven my father to think he could fix everything if he just took a little more from some escrow accounts.
I’d built a compelling mitigation package. Letters from the families of the soccer teams he coached, medical records showing his mother’s treatment costs. He’d started Gamblers Anonymous, and his sponsor even wrote a letter. His fraud wasn’t born of greed. It was still wrong—he understood that. He was pleading guilty! But he had genuine remorse and was taking steps toward recovery. I’d even found a case in the Ninth Circuit where similar circumstances had resulted in a downward departure—a sentence below the federal guidelines minimum.
I was ready as could be.
When I stood up in that courtroom in Augusta five days ago, I began my presentation with the same confidence I began all of them.
“Your Honor,” I started, looking Judge Morrison in his weathered face. “Mr. Chen’s circumstances present compelling grounds for a downward departure under Section 5K1.1.”
I cited the medical documentation, referenced United States v. Rodriguez from the Eleventh Circuit, and outlined his community service coaching youth soccer. The judge was nodding. Marcus’s attorney looked cautiously optimistic. Everything was going smoothly.
